


The Many Boggarts of Sherlock Holmes

by dragonQuill907



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Boggarts, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hufflepuff John, I'm not sure I'm sorry, Kidlock, Light Angst, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Potterlock, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Sherlock's biggest fears, Slytherin Sherlock, Teenlock, it's in the fourth section if you wanna skip it, listen the boggarts are mean okay, tw abusive parent, tw emotional abuse, tw homophobia, tw homophobic slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 17:17:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7472547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonQuill907/pseuds/dragonQuill907
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A boggart is a shapeshifter that usually lurks in dark spaces. It has no definite form, taking the shape of that which is most feared by the person who encounters it."<br/>(Wikibooks, Muggle's Guide to Harry Potter)</p><p>Sherlock Holmes has seen more of his own boggarts in ten years than most wizards have in their entire lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Many Boggarts of Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> So I got really into Wolfstar around three weeks ago, which led me to keep thinking about potterlock. That led me to wondering about the boys' boggarts. I'm sure we've all seen the fanart in which John's boggart is a dead Sherlock. I got to wondering about Sherlock's boggarts, and then I couldn't choose just one to write about... so... here you go. Also I kind of explained why I put them in their houses in the end notes.
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful beta @EmmaLockWrites, who managed to edit this before she left for vacation.
> 
> Okay so there's some potentially triggering language I think. Just... proceed with caution, maybe? Yeah? Okay?

**One**

The first time Sherlock Holmes faced a boggart, he was seven years old and only just starting to display signs of having magic. He lived in a big, centuries-old manor with his Mummy, his Daddy, his elder brother Mycroft, and their legion of house elves. The best thing about living in such an enormous old house, Sherlock had discovered at a much earlier age, was that there was never  _ ever _ a lack of places to explore. This belief was what got him into trouble with Mummy at least three times a week, and it was what got him into trouble with a terrible magical creature known as a boggart.

Sherlock, being only seven years old, had only read about a quarter of the books in his father’s library. Mycroft, at twelve, had helped him back when he was unable to read, of course, but those days were long gone, and Sherlock was slowly working through the shelves himself, thank you very much. He considered himself quite intelligent for a wizard his age, and he never failed to talk Mycroft’s ear off about everything he’d learned from his father’s leather-bound textbooks.

Therefore, when Sherlock was faced with a boggart, he had no idea what to do or even how to recognize one. One moment, he had opened the grandfather clock in the fourth floor drawing room - the one only used when it rained too much and flooded the first floor, which didn’t happen all that often anyway. The next, he had been knocked on the cold wooden floor, his brother looming over him menacingly.

“Sherlock, what on Earth do you think you’re doing?” Mycroft spat. “You’re such a stupid little boy.”

The boy’s eyes widened as his brother approached him.

“You never do anything right,” said the older boy. “You never will. You’re too stupid to understand, aren’t you?”

“Myc?” Sherlock asked, his voice shaking. “Mycroft? What’s wrong?”

“Of course you couldn’t figure it out,” his brother laughed. “I should’ve known. You’ll never be as smart as I am. You’ll always be the stupid little brother. Mummy and Daddy won’t be very pleased.”

“Stop that,” Sherlock pleaded, his eyes burning with the threat of tears. “Myc, please.”

The older boy shook his head. “You’re boring, too. No wonder you don’t have any friends except for me. Well, you know what, Sherlock? I don’t want to be your friend anymore. I never have.”

Sherlock nearly choked as tears began streaming down his face. “M-Myc? Why are you being mean? You’re my best friend!”

Mycroft sneered. “Really, Sherlock? Crying? Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side, little brother. Caring is  _ not _ an advantage. That’s why I don’t care about you.”

Sherlock couldn’t help it; he began to sob pathetically. He couldn’t understand why his brother, his best friend for his whole life so far, wanted to be so cruel to him. Surely Mycroft couldn’t mean those horrible things he said. Mycroft loved Sherlock very much, and he loved reading and exploring with him. Didn’t he?

The boy scrambled to his feet and ran out of the room, wailing loudly, and ran right into a solid chest. Sherlock backed away quickly, sniffing erratically. When he saw whom he had run into, the child frowned.

“Mycroft!” he exclaimed, his tearful eyes widening. “You were ju-just inside the- the- Why were you so mean to me, Myc?”

Mycroft frowned as well, wiping tears away from Sherlock’s face gently as he knelt to match the smaller boy’s height.

“What are you talking about, Sherlock?”

“You were inside the drawing room,” sobbed Sherlock, pointing over his shoulder with a trembling finger. “You were saying terrible things to me. Don’t you love me, Mycroft? You’ve been my best friend forever! My whole life, in fact.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Sherlock and shoved the younger boy behind his back protectively before twisting the ancient doorknob.

“Myc!” Sherlock whined as he clutched his brother’s clothes.

“Sherlock, that wasn’t me,” Mycroft said calmly. “There’s something else in here, and I’m in charge when Mummy and Father aren’t home. I have to see what’s going on, okay?”

Sherlock nodded slowly, following Mycroft into the drawing room obediently. 

“Okay, Sherlock,” said Mycroft, his wand at the ready, “where was I?”

“You jumped out of the grandfather clock,” Sherlock explained, feeling foolish. How he ever believed that it had  _ really _ been his older brother escaped him. He vowed to prove himself a worthy opponent to whatever it was that had made him cry. That’s why, when Sherlock got the idea to run ahead and open the clock again, he felt like the most brilliant boy in the world. He’d show Mycroft what the creature was, and Mycroft could banish it! They’d be like a team!

“Sherlock, wait-” Mycroft called as Sherlock wrenched the door open.

Not-Mycroft popped out again, taking one look at Sherlock and sneering.

“Why must you be so disgustingly moronic?” Not-Mycroft taunted. “It’s no wonder nobody likes you.”

“You’re not my brother!” Sherlock yelled, scowling at Not-Mycroft.

“Sherlock, get away from there,” Real-Mycroft warned, raising his wand. Sherlock took one look at his brother before dashing to his side. He looked up, noticing that the taller boy had paled considerably. “Stay behind me.”

Sherlock nodded and turned towards Not-Mycroft, ready to send his most threatening glare at the creature. The sight that met him made him furrow his little brows instead.

“Mycroft? How did it do that?” Sherlock asked, staring at a perfect copy of himself, wild dark curls and all. “Myc? What is it?”

Mycroft  tilted his head. “I- I think…”

“I hate you!” screamed Not-Sherlock. “I hate you!”

Sherlock gasped. “I don’t hate you, Myc! Don’t listen to him.”

“I hate you!” Not-Sherlock yelled again, stomping his foot. “I never want to see you again!”

“I think it’s a boggart, Sherlock.”

“A what?” the younger boy asked, wrinkling his nose.

“A boggart,” Mycroft repeated, his voice trembling. “It takes the shape of a person’s worst fear.”

Sherlock frowned. “Are you afraid of me?”

“Of course not, Sherlock.”

Not-Sherlock hadn’t shut up since Sherlock and Mycroft had started talking. It yelled again, gaining the attention of both boys.

“You’re stupid, and I hate you!” it shouted, glaring at Mycroft.

“I’ve only read about this before,” Mycroft muttered before changing his stance to face the creature head-on.

“Read about what?” Sherlock asked, instantly jealous that his brother knew something he didn’t.

_ “Riddikulus!” _

All of a sudden, Not-Sherlock’s hair turned bright orange, and his nose became bigger, rounder, and shinier. Not-Sherlock’s shoes elongated and changed color until the creature was tripping over them. It glared at Mycroft before disappearing, gone in a puff of yellow smoke.

The real Sherlock and Mycroft stood in the drawing room silently, neither one looking at each other.

“What other things did it say to you, Sherlock?” asked Mycroft as they walked downstairs.

“It said that it didn’t care about me and that I was too stupid to do anything right,” Sherlock replied, staring at the floorboards beneath his shoes. His next words were quiet. “I thought it was really you. I was stupid.”

Mycroft shook his head. “It’s all right, Sherlock. It looked a lot like you, and I was convinced, even though I knew you were right behind me.”

Sherlock frowned, thinking back to what Not-Sherlock had said.

“I don’t hate you, Myc! You’re my best friend.”

“You’re my best friend too, Sherlock.” Mycroft smiled down at his brother, ruffling his hair. “Don’t worry about what the boggart said. I think you may be just as smart as I am one day.”

Sherlock perked up at that. “You really think so?”

“Of course. You’ve got me to teach you, you know.”

The younger boy grinned, and the two of them spent the rest of the day learning everything they could about boggarts, just in case either of them ran into another one.

When Mummy returned home, she was furious to find the dining table cluttered with open books, scrolls, ink, and quills. Sherlock had accidentally knocked an inkwell over earlier, but a house elf had immediately started at scrubbing at the table, and now the stain was barely visible. As Mycroft explained what had happened in the drawing room, Mummy’s face grew paler and paler. She gathered Mycroft in her arms as soon as he had stopped speaking. Then she grabbed Sherlock and, having always been a strongly maternal woman, lifted him out of his seat and clutched him to her chest.

“I’ll write the Ministry,” Mummy said. “Your father will be able to pull some strings. You won’t be expelled for this, Myc. Thank you for taking care of it.” She held her arm out to him. Sherlock giggled as Mycroft sighed before humoring their mother. “Oh, my brave boys,” she said. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Myc and I are learning all about them so it’s not a surprise next time,” Sherlock said cheerfully, although he couldn’t shake off everything the boggart had said.

“That’s wonderful, dear.”

Sherlock nodded into his mother’s neck before she set him down. He sat next to Mycroft again, shoving a book at him excitedly, pointing towards a picture of a werewolf wearing a tophat.

“Hey!” Sherlock explained, frowning. “You turned me into a clown! I would’ve made you blow up like a balloon.”

At the small smile on Mycroft’s face, Sherlock erupted into giggles.

 

**Two and Three**

The second and third time Sherlock Holmes faced a boggart, he was twelve years old and in Defense Against the Dark Arts class in his second year at Hogwarts. He and his fellow Slytherins were joined by the Hufflepuffs; the houses, as surprising as it may seem, tended to get along famously. Of course, Sherlock didn’t really get along with anyone.

The Hufflepuffs were chattering amongst themselves restlessly, some comforting anxious others already. Sherlock caught sight of John Watson holding out a bag of chocolates to a skinny brunette, and he blushed before turning away. The Slytherins mainly kept to themselves or their selective friend groups, which meant Sherlock was, naturally, alone. It didn’t bother him.

The professor had been preparing them for today’s lesson for nearly a week. The other students were nervous or already embarrassed; Sherlock, however, was not. He had been ready for this lesson since he was seven years old, and he didn’t want to be a part of their witless prattling.

They were going to face their boggarts. Sherlock wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was looking forward to imagining Mycroft in a dress and heels.

“All right, all right!” called Professor Wilhelm. “Line up, all of you! Slytherins on one side, Hufflepuffs on the other.”

Sherlock was more than a bit irritated when he was shoved to the front of the Slytherin line, Philip Anderson snickering behind him. He turned around and glared at the boy before spinning around to watch John’s skinny brunette friend face her greatest fear. Professor Wilhelm opened the lone cupboard in the middle of the room, and the students behind Sherlock gasped as it turned into a rottweiler, growling and foaming at the mouth. From the way the brunette’s shoulders were shaking, Sherlock could deduce that she’d been bitten by a dog not unlike this one when she was young, presumably before she started attending Hogwarts.

“Come on, Sarah,” a Hufflepuff called. Sherlock didn’t think much of it until Wilhelm admonished the speaker.

“Mr. Watson, if you please.”

Sherlock smirked as the Hufflepuff replied, “Sorry, sir.”

Sarah cried,  _ “Riddikulus!”  _ and the dog shrunk until it was the size of a chihuahua. It barked playfully and started chasing its tail.

“Nicely done, Miss Sawyer,” Wilhelm complimented. “All right, Holmes. You’re up.”

Sherlock nodded and walked up to the creature, fully expecting the dog to morph into his older brother. However, the gray eyes that met his were not those of Mycroft Holmes.

“Sherlock,” his mother called. The Slytherin was vaguely aware of Wilhelm’s widening eyes and sudden protective stance, but nothing could distract him from the sight of his mother in front of him, pale and shaking. “Help me, Sherlock, please,” she continued, clutching her heart.

“Mummy,” he whispered, his throat tightening as she hunched over.

“Sherlock,  _ please! _ ” she cried, her skin growing as pale as snow. “Do something!”

It wasn’t until he heard a few snickers behind him that Sherlock realized he was trembling. His wand was unsteady, his breathing was erratic, and he could hear his pulse rushing through his head as his mother collapsed, falling on her knees pitifully.

“I- I can’t,” he croaked, shaking his head.

“Lockie,” his mother whined, reaching out to him. Sherlock stepped forward instinctively, for once not thinking about his actions. His mother was deteriorating, and he could stop it. He could stop it if only he were with her. He  _ could _ .

“Sherlock,” Wilhelm called sharply, and Sherlock realized he was halfway across the floor.

“Sherlock, please,” his mother insisted, coughing violently. He looked away as she started retching, unable to watch his mother in so much pain. “Please, do something, Lockie.”

The Slytherin shook violently as his wand clattered to the floor. He turned, and, ignoring the taunting of his peers, ran out of the room.

“What’sa matter, Lockie?” cackled Anderson as the door hit Sherlock’s heels.

The brunet collapsed outside the classroom, hiding his head in his hands. He winced as the door opened and shut again. Another student sat next to him, and, as Sherlock turned his head, he was surprised - him,  _ surprised! _ \- to find John Watson holding out a bag of chocolates.

“I think you need one,” John said in lieu of a proper greeting. Sherlock took a chocolate reluctantly, popping it in his mouth with a mumble of thanks. “I’m sorry everyone had to see that.”

Sherlock frowned and stared at the floor between his legs. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “me too.”

The two boys sat in comfortable silence until John spoke up again. 

“So, I punched him in the face,” the Hufflepuff reported. At Sherlock’s wide-eyed stare, he added, “Philip Anderson. I punched him in the face, so I have to make up today’s lesson after class. Wilhelm told me to tell you the same.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Why did you punch Anderson?”

John frowned, a dark look clouding his features. “He shouldn’t’ve poked fun at your mum…  _ dying _ . It was no problem, though. Only lost Hufflepuff ten points. He lost Slytherin thirty. But I suppose that would be bad news for you, since you’re a Slytherin. Sorry.”

The taller boy only blinked in response. “But you don’t know me.”

John gasped. “Oh, shite, right. I’m John Watson. I… I mean, we have a lot of classes together. I guess I just assumed-”

“No, I mean, we’re not friends,” Sherlock corrected, rolling his eyes.

“We could be,” John retorted. “I think you need one.”

“I do not.”

“Yeah, you do! Nobody else stepped up to sock Anderson.”

Sherlock hesitated, drumming his finger incessantly against his thighs. “How hard did you hit him?”

“Pretty hard,” the Hufflepuff replied, beaming.

“Where?”

“Right in the jaw,” John recounted. “I’m quite impressed with myself, to be honest.”

Sherlock’s smirk turned into a grin. “Bruise?”

“There will be,” John replied, returning Sherlock’s grin with his own.

The Slytherin nodded decisively. “Good. But I’m not a charity case, you know.”

Sherlock watched, amused, as John’s neck turned pink. The Hufflepuff fidgeted, holding the bag of chocolate out once more. Chuckling, Sherlock took another piece.

“Yeah, I know,” John said. “But… All right, this is going to sound bloody stupid, but I heard about what you can do. You can just tell things about people, right? And it’s not even magic.”

Slowly, the taller boy nodded. “They’re called deductions,” he said softly. “Most people don’t like them.”

“What? Why not?” John asked, frowning. 

Sherlock frowned back. “I can never tell what I’m not supposed to talk about,” he answered. “For example, you’re a half-blood, which you might not want to tell Slytherins because we’re stereotypically quite traditional and might frown upon your parents coupling. You live in a single-parent home, and I can tell because your shoes are second-hand. I’m not sure which of your parents is still around, or if the separation was due to death or divorce. I’m betting it was a nasty divorce, if the look on your face is anything to go by. Either way, you weren’t left with much. You’re prone to anxiety and panic attacks. That’s why you always have chocolate and why you wanted to get out of facing your boggart in front of everyone. You chew on your lips when you’re nervous, and that’s why they’re chapped. Also, you pick your cuticles. Easy enough to tell.”

John’s mouth had dropped open, and his blue eyes were wide. “Wow! That was amazing!”

Sherlock frowned. “What?”

“That was brilliant,” John replied, nodding enthusiastically. “I know other people don’t like them. Sally Donovan’s told me all about you. She’s friends with my sister. Anyway, she said you were a freak, but I don’t think that’s right.” The blond held out the bag of candy again, and Sherlock ate another piece. “Anyway,” continued the Hufflepuff, “I think we should be friends, even though I can’t do anything interesting like your deductions.”

“I’ll take care of the deductions, and you take care of the punching-people-in-the-face,” Sherlock suggested, licking chocolate off his fingers. “I think you'd be better at that, anyway.”

John nodded. “Yeah, okay. If  _ you _ tried to fight someone, they'd probably break you in two. You're too skinny. Do you eat enough?”

“Probably not,” Sherlock answered, shrugging and reaching for another candy. “I like sweets, though.”

“I can tell,” John laughed. “I always have chocolate in case someone needs it. And that means, like, stress, Sherlock, not just ‘cause you didn't eat breakfast.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Sure. It's not as if you're going to restrict me, though.”

“Doesn't mean you can't eat regular food,” the blond argued, frowning. “Do I have to make sure you're eating enough?”

“Sitting with me during meals is unnecessary.”

“So is carrying around chocolate, but I do that anyway,” John reasoned.

Sherlock glanced at the blond out of the corner of his eye. “I  know you want to ask. You can. I don't mind.”

“Is your mum okay?”

The Slytherin sighed. “No. She's… it's lung cancer. The Hoopers - Molly's a Ravenclaw first year - are helping us with Muggle doctors.”

“Oh, I know Molly. Never met her parents, though.”

“Mrs. Hooper and my mum were roommates when they went to Hogwarts,” Sherlock explained, his chest tight. “They were both Hufflepuffs. Their dream was to have their kids marry so they'd be related in the most convoluted way possible. Since Molly's an only child, Mycroft’s a seventh year, and my parents aren't likely to produce more children, that responsibility falls to me.”

John winced. “That's horrifying.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don't think she'll see my wedding, anyway. If I have one. I probably won't.”

“Come on,” John said. “Muggle doctors know what they're doing. I mean, it's how Muggles survived for so long without magic. I'm sure your mum’ll be all right.”

The taller boy narrowed his eyes at the blond. “You’re not bad for a Hufflepuff.”

“And you’re not bad for a Slytherin. Another chocolate?”

The taller boy nodded and held his hand out for the candy as the classroom door opened. Students in green and yellow flooded out, headed to the Great Hall for lunch. A group of Slytherins saw Sherlock and paused, smiling cruelly. Sherlock’s stomach twisted unpleasantly as Anderson loomed over him and John where they sat against the wall.

“Hey,  _ Lockie _ ,” he sneered. “How’s Mummy?”

Wilkes and Trevor chortled at Anderson’s weak attempt at harassment.

“How’s Sally? Still didn’t agree to that date, I see” Sherlock retorted. “Nor Lucille. Oh! And neither did Gina. Try again in a few years, I’d say.”

“What a freak,” Anderson spat weakly, his neck and cheeks reddening.

“Shut it, or I’ll give you a black eye to match your jaw,” John threatened, scrambling to his feet. He pursed his lips and crossed his arms, glaring up at Anderson menacingly. “And don’t call him names like that.”

“John, it’s fine,” Sherlock said. He sighed and stood, lightly tugging on the Hufflepuff’s robes. “We have to face our boggarts now.”

“Oh, you’re friends with the freak, now, Watson?”

“Yeah, I am, and I told you not to call him that,” John warned, puffing up his chest.

Sherlock tugged John’s robes again. “I’d rather you not get sent to the headmaster’s office, John.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, Mr. Watson,” said Professor Wilhelm, “but I think you should listen to Mr. Holmes.” The professor shot a dirty look at Anderson and his lackeys. “You’d better get to the Great Hall before lunch ends. You need your energy; you’ll be serving detention with me today, Mr. Anderson. Misters Wilkes and Trevor, you need not accompany us. Now run along.”

“Yes, sir,” the boys agreed, dashing down the hallway.

Wilhelm shook his head at the fleeing boys before turning to John and Sherlock once again, raising a white eyebrow.

“Am I going to have to expect this from you, Watson?”

“Only if they keep making fun of Sherlock,” John replied, nodding finally. Sherlock felt his cheeks heat up as Wilhelm cast him a wary glance.

“I'm sure Mr. Holmes can fight his own battles,” the professor said. “I'm glad he has an ally like you, Mr. Watson. Now come inside. Let's get this over with. I'd like to get to lunch too.”

“If it's all the same to you, Professor, I'd like to go first,” John said. Sherlock didn’t fail to notice the way John's shoulders tensed as he walked back into the classroom.

“We'll continue the lesson tomorrow, but I reasoned, what with the nature of your boggart, Mr. Holmes, that you might prefer to face it without an audience.”

“Thank you, Professor Wilhelm.”

The white-haired professor opened the cupboard door, and the creature took one look at John before turning into a middle-aged woman with dull red hair, a Muggle nurse’s uniform, and John's nose. The Hufflepuff’s face turned red.

“Johnny, what the hell?” she demanded, glaring at the blond. Sherlock’s eyes widened as he noticed the half-empty beer bottle in her hand. She took a swig before setting in on John again. “Why’ve you brought me here? Can't you do anything right?”

John raised his wand; his hands were shaking so much Sherlock was surprised his wand didn't fall out. 

_ “Riddikulus,”  _ the Hufflepuff said weakly. The woman just laughed.

“Useless. Just like your father.”

Sherlock frowned. “Don't listen to her, John,” he said quietly, just loud enough for the other boy to hear him.

The woman turned to Sherlock and glared.

“Who's this?” she demanded. “A  _ thing _ like you from that freakshow you call a school?”

Sherlock watched proudly as John straightened, readied his wand, and shouted,  _ “Riddikulus!” _

John's mother staggered backwards as a grass skirt and coconut bra appeared over her uniform. She screamed in frustration, her face turning as red as the Gryffindor common room.

“Nice work, John,” Wilhelm complimented. “I'd eat a few chocolates if I were you.”

John nodded weakly before taking a seat in one of the chairs lined along the wall. Sherlock stood from his own seat and squeezed John's shoulder; the Hufflepuff relaxed at the touch and gave the Slytherin an encouraging smile as the taller boy stood in front of the boggart.

His mother reappeared, looking as forlorn as the first time. She ran her fingers through her salt-and-pepper hair, crying softly as clumps of it fell out in her hands.

“Sherlock,” she pleaded, reaching out to him, “help me.”

_ “Riddikulus!”  _ Sherlock yelled, clenching his eyes shut, unable to look at his mother for long.

The Slytherin only opened his eyes when he heard John laugh.

“You did it! Sherlock, you need to see her!” the blond said. “You did it!”

Sherlock's mother, garbed in full Medieval armor, stood in front of them, a longsword raised to the heavens.

“Beware!” his mother declared in one of the voices she reserved only for storytelling. “Foul creature! I shall slay you, mighty dragon, without haste! Bards for years to come shall sing of my epic tale. Prepare to be vanquished, disgusting beast!”

Sherlock grinned at his mother's antics.

“Excellent, Mr. Holmes!” cried Wilhelm. “Top marks for both of you. Now, get to lunch.”

John and Sherlock walked down to the Great Hall together, neither of them talking much besides idle chit-chat. Sherlock continued to eat chocolates from John’s stash, expecting the blond to replenish it during dessert later that night.

“What class have you got next?” John asked.

“Potions,” replied Sherlock. “And you?”

“Transfiguration,” John said, sounding vaguely disappointed.

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

As they entered the hall, Sherlock glanced longingly at the Hufflepuff table before turning towards the Slytherins. He sat at the end of the table closest to the teachers, a good three seats between him and the next student. Taking his potions book out of his bag, he began working on the homework he really should have finished two days ago when it was assigned. The sound of a clearing throat pulled Sherlock from his work, and he looked up to see John standing next to the table, shuffling awkwardly.

“Hey, Sherlock,” the Hufflepuff said, blushing and gesturing towards the empty seat across from the Slytherin, “is it all right if I sit with you? Um, unless you’re waiting for someone else…”

“I thought I said you didn’t have to sit with me,” replied Sherlock, tilting his head.

“Right, you did. Sorry,” John apologized. “Um, okay. I’ll see you around, Sherlock.”

“No!” Sherlock blurted. He felt his face heat up. “Nobody’s sitting there. You can. I’d like you to, I mean.”

John grinned and sat down. “Thanks! It’s just that- you know… My Hufflepuff friends will probably ask me about the boggart, and I don’t want to tell them.”

Sherlock frowned. “You don’t want me to know, either.”

“I don’t want anyone to know,” John reasoned, “but I’m glad it’s you and not Sarah or Mike. Mike can’t keep a secret to save his life.”

The Slytherin nodded sagely. “Your mother… does she really speak to you like that?”

John pursed his lips and nodded. “It’s not her fault. Da left before he could explain the wizard thing. She’s just mad at him for not telling her.”

Sherlock shook his head. “It is her fault,” he insisted. “She shouldn’t be allowed to take out her anger on you. Parents aren’t supposed to do that.”

“Well, it’s fine,” John said hotly, dropping his fork on his plate. “Don’t worry about it, Sherlock.”

“It is not,” Sherlock hissed. “She can’t treat you that way.”

“She’s my mum.”

“Exactly!” the Slytherin shouted. The students closest to them looked over, apathetic glares on their faces. Sherlock lowered his voice. “My house is too quiet,” he said, ignoring John’s confused frown at the topic change. “Mycroft stays at Hogwarts over breaks to study, and my father is often occupied at the Muggle hospital with my mother. They’re not home often, so it’s just me and the house elves.”

John nodded slowly. “You have house elves?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, “though that wasn’t really the point.”

“What  _ was _ the point?”

The Slytherin pursed his lips. “I thought perhaps you and your sister might be amenable to spending winter holiday with me. The house is much too quiet for my liking.”

John beamed. “That sounds great. Are you sure it won’t upset your parents?”

“No, they’re adamant that I make more friends. They’ll be quite pleased.”

“All right,” John agreed, “but only if you eat lunch.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’ll eat something.”

John narrowed his eyes at the Slytherin. “Eat something substantial, and I’ll give you more chocolate.”

“Agreed.”

 

**Four**

The fourth time Sherlock Holmes faced a boggart, he was fifteen years old and and in the middle of an abandoned potions shop he’d dragged John into. They were on their winter trip to Hogsmeade, and Sherlock had finally convinced the Hufflepuff to explore with him; normally they stopped by Honeydukes or The Three Broomsticks before doing anything  _ exciting,  _ but today Sherlock was able to get his way.

Like always, it was just the two of them. John was friends with everyone as long as they never crossed him, but Sherlock couldn’t help crossing _ everyone, _ whether he meant it or not. It didn’t matter much to Sherlock; when it came to breaking and entering,  _ more  _ wasn’t exactly  _ happier.  _ Or however that insipid saying went.

John pursed his lips as Sherlock flounced into the shop. “Do you really think we should be doing this?” the Hufflepuff asked warily.

“Of course we shouldn’t be breaking in, John,” Sherlock replied easily, “but I want to see what I can salvage. Free ingredients are the best ingredients.”

“Don’t make any illegal potions,” John reminded. “I’ll turn you in.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Sherlock retorted, flashing a grin over his shoulder. He began to rifle through the cabinets lining the walls, searching for nothing in particular. “Look, John! There’s half a bottle of Felix Felicis in here! Catch!”

“Sherlock, don’t-”

The Slytherin threw the bottle over his shoulder, grinning as John caught it and hastily tucked it in his bag.

“Told you you’d catch it,” said Sherlock, chuckling.

“Yeah, sure. Just hurry up, would you?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Don’t pretend you’re not curious, John. Feel free to look around. Take your time. We have all day.”

“We really don’t,” replied John, but he did start looking through the drawers at the front desk. “What am I looking for?”

“Anything of interest,” Sherlock answered, slamming a cabinet door shut. He caught sight of a wardrobe labeled  _ Imported Only. _

“John!” the Slytherin called. “I might have found something exciting. Come over here.”

“Are you sure it’s safe?” John asked. The Hufflepuff joined the taller boy in front of the wardrobe, frowning at it cautiously. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Nonsense, John!” Sherlock laughed. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“You know, you’re unlike any Slytherin I’ve ever talked to.”

Sherlock spun around grinning, a wild gleam in his eye. “You’re right. I’m much more fun.” The Slytherin turned and wrenched the door to the wardrobe open, staggering back into the Hufflepuff as something heavy tumbled out.

“Sherlock, what-”

“Oh, Merlin,” Sherlock breathed. “I think it’s a boggart, John.”

“It’s a  _ what?” _ John questioned, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder. The taller boy could almost feel the other’s mouth drop open. “That’s me.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock mused, not at all surprised.

“Sherlock, are you going to-”

“No, John. Just wait for a minute,” Sherlock commanded as the other John stepped closer. “I want to see what he says.”

John frowned, shaking his head vehemently. “Sherlock, I don’t think-”

“Bloody fucking  _ queer _ ,” the boggart spat. “You’re disgusting. It’s unnatural. No wonder Mummy left you.”

Sherlock paled. “Oh. I’d- I’d been expecting something like that, but…”

_ “Expecting?!” _ John screeched.

The boggart smiled cruelly, an unnatural look on John’s usually good-natured features. Sherlock held his wand out, ready to defend himself and his friend, when the boggart spoke again. He was terrified but curious as to what else the false John would say.

“A freak  _ and _ a fairy!” the boggart laughed, turning John’s sweet chuckle into something heavy and dark. “How foul. You’re absolutely repulsive.”

“Nice adjectives,” Sherlock muttered, his heart twisting.

The taller boy yelped as John shoved him away from the boggart, brandishing his wand and yelling,  _ “Riddikulus!” _

The spell sent the boggart stumbling back into the cupboard from which it had emerged. John didn’t speak as he dragged the Slytherin out of the shop and into the street. Sherlock knew he was in trouble by the tension in the short Hufflepuff’s shoulders.

“John?”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” growled the fifteen-year-old. 

Sherlock obeyed, walking silently as John led him to a back table of The Three Broomsticks. John pushed him towards a chair and sat down heavily across from him.

“John, I know you’re angry,” Sherlock began. John shook his head, effectively cutting him off.

“No,” the Hufflepuff said simply. “I am beyond angry, Sherlock. Angry cannot begin to describe how I’m feeling. I’m furious.”

Sherlock stared at the table, pulling nervously at his fingers. “John, please, let me explain.”

“Not right now,” John replied, his blue eyes glaring at Sherlock. “I can’t believe I’m your boggart. And the things it said! Do you really think so little of me?”

“No!” Sherlock interjected. “You’re not the problem, John. It’s me.”

“I bloody well know it’s you,” John seethed. “You really think I’d say that to you?  _ Ever? _ You’re not the names they call you, Sherlock. I’ve told you this countless times.”

“I know, John. But-”

“And what do I care if you’re straight or gay or fancy bloody  _ owls?  _ You’re my best friend, Sherlock, for Merlin’s sake.”

“It doesn’t matter?” asked Sherlock, glancing up at his friend timidly.

“No!” John shouted. “Of course it doesn’t matter! Why would it?”

“A freak an-”

“If you finish that sentence,” John growled, “I swear to Merlin I’m going to murder you with my bare hands. I can’t  _ believe  _ I’m your boggart!”

“It’s not you, John. It’s what you said,” Sherlock explained. “It’s my worst  _ fear. _ That’s what a boggart  _ is,  _ and… it’ll probably involve you more often than not as long as we’re friends.”

John scowled, drumming his fingers on the table. “I  _ hate _ that. You know I’d never call you that, not if my life depended on it.”

“I do hope you’d use some sense if your life actually depended on calling me names,” said Sherlock. “But yes, I know.”

“Do you?”

Sherlock nodded. “Do you want some butterbeer?”

“No, I don’t have any money. You know this.”

“And  _ you _ know I have more money than I know what to do with,” Sherlock replied with an exasperated eye roll. “I’m quite happy spending it on you, even if you’re too stubborn to accept it directly. So. Butterbeers are on me.”

John pursed his lips, seemingly working something out in his head. “Would you rather go to Honeydukes?” he asked, looking anywhere but at Sherlock. “We could get more chocolate frogs.”

Sherlock pretended to consider before replying. “Only if I can get jelly slugs.”

John cringed. “You know those unsettle me.”

“John, I understand most things,” Sherlock said, “but I don’t understand how you can be perfectly fine eating the heads off chocolate frogs yet so uncomfortable with jelly slugs.”

“They’re just gross, all right? The texture…” John shuddered.

Sherlock smiled softly. “All right. Honeydukes it is,  _ and _ I’ll wait to eat my slugs in the privacy of my own room.”

“Good. Keep your disgusting candy away from me,” John laughed.

“Certainly,” Sherlock replied. “You’re likely to steal them when I’m not looking.”

John gagged and nearly shoved Sherlock out of his chair. “Come on. Let’s go get some chocolate,” he said, pulling the Slytherin towards the door by his wrist. “I’m starving.”

“Oh, no, we can’t have that,” chuckled Sherlock.

They had just left The Three Broomsticks when John nudged Sherlock and asked, “Am I really that short compared to you?”

The Slytherin simply grinned at his blond companion, dragging him into Honeydukes by the ends of his black-and-yellow scarf.

 

**Five**

The fifth time Sherlock Holmes faced a boggart, he was seventeen years old and only doing it to get extra credit. Professor Rutherford was the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, and she had failed to listen to the students when they’d  _ told her _ they’d already faced their boggart.

“It never hurts to practice,” she had reasoned.

Sherlock had vehemently disagreed. He had had more than enough practice with boggarts, enough for a lifetime. He really didn’t feel like seeing any more. John had been panicking all week, popping chocolates in his mouth every time Professor Rutherford even mentioned the creatures. The Slytherin had spent the week inquiring after John’s health and reminding the Hufflepuff that he happened to be a chaser on his house’s Quidditch team; if John continued downing chocolate at the rate he had been the last week, he’d soon be the size of the Hogwarts Express and not nearly nimble enough to play effectively.

John had simply laughed, showing off a chocolatey grin.

Now that Sherlock was seventeen, more and more things had changed. Around the end of their fifth year, John had started dating, and Sherlock had not expected to be as upset by this development as he really was. The Hufflepuff had less time for Sherlock since he was spending all of it with his girlfriends, eating lunch with them one day and with Sherlock the next; none of them had liked Sherlock very much. The worst part of it all was that John’s current girlfriend, Mary Morstan, was a Slytherin sixth year. She was short, blonde, curvy, bubbly, a year below them, and everything Sherlock wasn’t. John fancied himself in love with her.

So yes, Sherlock dreaded his boggart because he knew exactly what it would be.

Professor Rutherford clapped her hands, gaining the attention of every student in the room. Sherlock took a deep breath before forcing his way to the beginning of the Slytherin line, desperate to get it all over with. He took a deep breath before turning to his right, catching John’s eye. The blond grinned nervously, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“You can do it, John,” Mary called, sending him a warm smile. John grinned back at her before turning to Rutherford.

“All right, boys. Who’d like to go first?” she asked, looking between the two friends.

“I will,” John said, nodding decidedly. He glanced at Sherlock. “If that’s all right with you.”

Sherlock shook his head, smirking. “Age before beauty.”

“It’s only three months,” John grumbled, stepping forward as Rutherford opened the cupboard in the middle of the room. The creature took one look at John before morphing into a lanky boy with pale skin, tousled curls, and a bruised face.

John tensed visibly as a woman’s voice called out,  _ “Freakshow!” _

_ John’s mother,  _ Sherlock’s brain supplied.  _She came for you._

The boggart - a perfect replica of a beaten Sherlock - cowered, treating the word like a physical blow. Sherlock couldn’t help wincing at the sharp tone the voice used. John gripped his wand tighter as the boggart lifted its head, a dark bruise spreading across his cheek, his bottom lip split open.

_ “Riddikulus!”  _ John yelled, sparks shooting from his wand. Sherlock, once again, turned into a clown, tripping over his own feet.

There had been a reason Sherlock had never met John’s mother, and that was it: John didn’t want his mother to do to Sherlock what she’d already done to John and Harry.

“Great job, John!” Rutherford complimented. “Nicely executed.”

The Slytherins whooped and applauded, none of them having a particularly soft spot for the boy. Sherlock smiled faintly in John’s direction, but the Hufflepuff wouldn’t meet his eye, instead moving to the side immediately. Mary huffed behind Sherlock, crossing her arms and shooting John a dark look. Sherlock cocked his head, eyeing John’s latest girlfriend warily. Mary caught his glance and turned her glare on him. The taller Slytherin shrugged before turning to face his own boggart.

Sherlock stared into his own bloody face before the boggart changed shape, John appearing before him, his arms wrapped around Mary. The Slytherin winced, his face flushing. He could feel the entire room’s eyes on him and his boggart, their feeble minds trying desperately to work out what must have been obvious from the start.

“You love me?” The boggart wearing John’s face laughed maniacally. “Really? You think I could love  _ you?” _ it taunted. “I thought you were supposed to be smart.”

Sherlock’s face turned bright red as snickers from the students behind him grew louder, punctuated by an outraged gasp from Mary. The Slytherin gripped his wand tightly, swallowing nervously as he prepared to send his fear away.

“Nobody could love something like  _ you.” _

_ “Riddikulus!”  _ the Slytherin cried, his voice shaking.

The boggart-Mary’s hair turned purple, and both Marys screamed in frustration. Sherlock bit his lip as boggart-John started cackling and pointing at his girlfriend’s distress. He took one look at the real John, who just stared at him incredulously, and bolted out of the classroom. The Slytherin ran through the corridors until he doubled over, clutching his side and panting.

_ Dear Merlin, _ he thought despairingly,  _ they all know.  _ John  _ knows. You idiot! _

Sherlock couldn’t get breath in fast enough. He was suffocating in his own skin, drowning in his self-doubt. John would hate him now; John was straight and loved Mary, and Sherlock was just his friend and probably not even that anymore. Sherlock’s boggart had ruined  _ everything.  _ The Slytherin had been happy to keep his feelings for John under wraps for the rest of his life. There really  _ was _ no ‘getting over’ the perfect man, and Sherlock hadn’t planned on confessing anytime soon. He’d resigned himself to forever being John’s friend; now it seemed like he wouldn’t even be graced with that.

Sherlock crumpled to the ground outside a boys’ bathroom, sticking his head between his knees and breathing deeply. Hot tears threatened to spill over his cheeks, but the Slytherin fought to keep them back. He’d control these emotions one day, he vowed, hastily wiping the moisture from his pale face.

Footsteps in the corridor intersecting his alerted Sherlock to the presence of the last person he wanted to see him crying on the floor in a dirty hallway.

“Sherlock!” called John.

The Slytherin slipped in the bathroom before his Hufflepuff friend could get another word out, locking himself in the stall farthest from the door. Sherlock sighed as he sat down, wincing as the door slammed open.

“Sherlock!” shouted John once more. “Can I please talk to you?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, his voice thick. “Leave me alone.”

John’s brown shoes appeared in front of Sherlock’s stall. “Sherlock, please,” John begged. “Please let me talk to you. I’m not- I’m not angry with you, ‘Lock.”

The taller boy frowned. “No, you just pity me,” he said.

“Sherlock, please, just-”

“No.”

The stall door rattled, and Sherlock frowned.

“Did you just punch the door?” he asked. John’s silence was enough of an answer. “I can’t let you in, John. You don’t understand.”

“I do understand, you idiot,” John replied, sitting against Sherlock’s stall. “If you won’t let me in there, I guess I’ll just have to talk to you from out here, as unsanitary as it may be.” Sherlock’s heart raced, and he remained silent as John snuck one hand under the door, palm up. “I’m just going to keep talking, then. I, um… I didn’t expect that to be your boggart, Sher-”

“Of course you didn’t.”

John sighed. “Sherlock, you can’t- You shouldn’t be worried about… being rejected. You don’t know-”

Sherlock scoffed. “That’s the thing. I do know, John. I know you’re about to ‘let me down easy,’ or whatever the expression is, and I am, frankly, uninter-”

“Sherlock Holmes, I swear to Merlin I will crawl under this door and throttle you if you interrupt me again,” John growled. Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat at the low register of John’s voice.

“Okay,” he replied quietly.

“Thank you,” John sighed. “You saw how I reacted, and you bolted. Why?”

“Am I meant to answer you, or should I keep quiet?” Sherlock asked. John laughed, and Sherlock took it as encouragement. “You’re straight, John, as you always say. You’re not…  _ interested _ in me. It’s fine, really. The boggart was ri-”

John hit the door again, and Sherlock winced at the sound.

“The boggart was  _ wrong!” _

Both boys were silent as the door settled. Sherlock swallowed nervously, waiting for John to speak again. If he allowed himself to speak now, he’d make a fool of himself. Either way he went, he would end up misinterpreting what John was trying to say.

“Your boggart was wrong,” John repeated softly. “You’re not- I’d never call you that, you know. You’re extraordinary. And- I never said I was straight, Sherlock, and I  _ never _ said I wasn’t interested in you.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “John, please…”

“I broke up with Mary,” the Hufflepuff replied bluntly. “Just now, after you ran out. ‘S why it took me so long to catch up to you.” The Slytherin’s mouth was suddenly very dry. “You know I love you, right? That I’ve  _ been _ in love with you since we were thirteen? I mean, I thought it was pretty obvious. I’ve been dating mostly Slytherins for, like, the last year and a half.”

“Girls,” Sherlock muttered.

“Er, not all of them,” John replied. “Do you remember James?”

“Sholto?” the Slytherin clarified. “He’s a Gryffindor.”

“Yeah, but he’s still a  _ he,” _ reasoned John.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Wait, you and Sholto were… together?”

“For a while,” said the Hufflepuff. “Didn’t last long. I really wasn’t a good boyfriend. I always stood people up so I could run after you. Do you remember the last boggart we faced? The one in that potions shop?” John laughed. “I was supposed to be on a date with Sarah.”

Sherlock smiled into his fist.

“So, yeah, I love you,” John declared firmly. “I was staring like that because I couldn’t believe it, and when you ran off, I… I mean, I sat there for what felt like the longest time, but Mary was screaming at me, and I basically laughed in her face before racing off to find you.”

“I would’ve loved to see it,” Sherlock replied softly.

“She was  _ so _ red,” John giggled. “What with her scarf, she looked like Christmas.”

Sherlock chuckled and unlocked the stall door. John stood up immediately, barged in the door, and dragged Sherlock out by his tie. The Slytherin stumbled out of the stall and into John, blushing. The Hufflepuff grinned; Sherlock wanted to kiss those lips, and he realized with a start that he could.

He leant in, intent on finally knowing the taste of John’s lips, when he was stopped by a palm to the sternum. Sherlock felt his whole face heat up, and he ducked his head shamefully.

“Hey, no,” John said softly, pulling Sherlock’s chin up with two fingers. The blond traced Sherlock’s jaw with one knuckle, and the taller boy’s eyelids fell shut. “I really really want to kiss you, Sherlock, but I don’t want our first one to be in the loo.”

The Slytherin laughed again, nodding along with the blond. “Where do you plan on taking me?” he asked.

“I was thinking the hallway was a bit more scenic,” John suggested, a wide smile on his face. “But we still have half an hour of class left. We need to get back.” Sherlock frowned, hiding his head in John’s neck. The blond giggled. “Your hair tickles, you git.”

Sherlock only burrowed further into the comfort of his Hufflepuff. “They all saw, John. I’m a fool.”

“Well, do you wanna give ‘em something to look at?” John purred, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.

The taller boy grinned, his lips brushing against John’s neck. “I really, really do.”

John dragged Sherlock out of the bathroom by his tie, giggling the whole time. He pushed Sherlock against the wall as soon as the door closed behind them, brushing his nose against the Slytherin’s gently. Sherlock gasped and licked his lips absently, staring intently at John’s mouth. The blond hovered his lips over Sherlock’s, and their breath mingled together.

“John, please,” Sherlock whispered, letting his eyelids flutter closed.

“Can you say it?” John asked. The taller boy opened his eyes, shooting the blushing Hufflepuff a quizzical look. “Sherlock, can you-”

“I love you,” Sherlock said quietly, letting his lips brush against John’s. “I love you. I love you. I-”

John’s lips met his, and Sherlock’s heart stopped. He wrapped his arms around his Hufflepuff’s neck as calloused hands rested on his waist and jaw. The shorter boy’s lips moved against Sherlock’s sweetly, gently, keeping the kiss light and chaste. Sherlock’s bottom lip slotted between John’s, and both boys broke apart panting.

“Sherlock-”

_ “Yes.” _

The boys crashed together again, the kiss a mess of tongues and clicking teeth. A sharp tug on Sherlock’s curls elicited a small moan from the taller boy, and John took that as an opportunity to lick the roof of Sherlock’s mouth.

_ “John,”  _ Sherlock whined brokenly.

“We should… get back to class,” John suggested, panting and smiling into Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock hummed and nodded. “Yeah, that.”

The Hufflepuff placed a soft kiss on the delicate skin behind the Slytherin’s ear before taking his hand and grinning.

“Let’s get to class,” he said.

As Sherlock and John walked into the classroom hand-in-hand, they were met by a moment of silence followed by every single one of the Hufflepuffs cheering and clapping.

“YEAH, JOHN!” screamed Mike Stamford, who was immediately hit on the shoulder by Sarah Sawyer.

The Slytherins were less enthusiastic, but a few of them smiled and nodded approvingly. Irene Adler, one of Sherlock’s only Slytherin acquaintances, was grinning wildly, cheering right along with the Hufflepuffs.

John grinned and pulled Sherlock down for a peck on the lips. The Slytherin turned red, smiling shyly as a few students wolf-whistled.

“Mr. Watson, Mr. Holmes, please take your seats,” Professor Rutherford called, a small smile playing at her lips despite her attempt at remaining professional.

“Sure thing, Professor,” John replied, leading Sherlock towards the benches set up on the right side of the room.

Mary immediately approached them as class continued, a murderous scowl on her face.

“John, what are you doing?” she demanded, gesturing towards Sherlock. The boy glared at her weakly before averting his eyes, choosing to stare at John’s shoes. “This is ridiculous. You’re  _ my _ boyfriend, not this freak’s.”

“Not anymore,” the Hufflepuff answered, shaking his head. He wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist, pulling them flush together. “And I think what I’d  _ like _ to be doing is snogging my beautiful genius of a boyfriend, but I can’t do that with you here, so…”

Mary huffed, crossed her arms, and stormed off. Sherlock chuckled, leaning into John’s warmth.

“She’ll hate me now,” he whispered, smiling.

“She’s always hated you,” John replied. “‘S why we didn’t work very well. But, hey, on the bright side, she’ll hate me now too.” The Hufflepuff giggled before kissing Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone. “Maybe this makes me a terrible person, but I can’t find it within myself to care,” he laughed.

“You? A terrible person?” Sherlock turned to John and kissed his forehead. “Never. But what’s this about your beautiful genius of a boyfriend?” he questioned, smirking.

“What?” John asked, grinning. “Everything I said is true. I mean, if you want it to be.”

The Slytherin nodded in response, capturing his Hufflepuff’s lips in a chaste kiss.

“I love you,” he whispered, smiling into John’s mouth.

“I love you too,” replied John, his deep blue eyes shining.

**Author's Note:**

> I put Sherlock in Slytherin because, instead of using his intelligence in the pursuit of more knowledge like a Ravenclaw, he uses it to get his way. He's good at manipulating people and situations so they play out in his favor. He's more the cunning aspect of Slytherin than the ambitious part, but there it is.
> 
> John's in Hufflepuff because he's extremely loyal and determined. I also think John is brave and courageous and chivalrous and all that wonderful Gryffindor stuff, but I like to put him in Hufflepuff to show that the badgers can be just as brave as the lions. (Also, I'm a Hufflepuff, so I kinda had to do it.)
> 
> Of course, I mean no disrespect to any of the Hogwarts houses. I know some people take it far too seriously to be considered reasonable. (I am /definitely/ one of these people.)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Leave a comment and kudos if you liked it! Feedback fuels me.
> 
> Also, would anyone be interested in a Marauders era Sherlock fic? I mean, like, Sherlock and John interacting with the Marauders' generation. I have kind of an outline, and it wouldn't be uploaded anytime soon, but you know. I'd work on it and upload it once it was mostly done. I dunno. Feedback!
> 
> That was a lot. I'm sorry.


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